


Le Marché Lutin

by Borusa



Category: Goblin Market - Christina Rossetti
Genre: BDSM, Consensual Kink, F/F, Modern Retelling, Sibling Incest, Yuleporn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 07:41:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Borusa/pseuds/Borusa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A modern(ish) kink-based retelling of the Goblin Market story. When Lizzie's sister Laura calls her, it brings back memories of events twenty years ago. Laura's night out had left her drained and listless, and Lizzie, always looking after her younger sister, decides to investigate. What she finds changes their relationship forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue (2013)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [undomielregina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/undomielregina/gifts).



One of the disadvantages of caller I.D. is that you can determine the caller prior to answering the phone. This provides an excellent opportunity for mildly panicked indecision about whether or not to answer it. It was this indecision that gripped Lizzie Claiborne on seeing her sister's number glowingly displayed She had time, as the phone rang, to argue with herself, and to win. In the Claiborne family blood has always won out over selfish concerns. Though Lizzie could not explain how, she knew that Laura was not calling purely to exchange gossip, or to engage in a friendly comparison of their offspring's academic achievements.

Lizzie lifted the cordless receiver to her ear and simultaneously pressed the button to receive the call. “Laura!” she greeted, faking the kind of surprised-but-delighted voice that sisters are supposed to use when called by their sibling. There was a long pause before her sister spoke, longer than could easily be explained by reaction speed or politeness.

“Elizabeth,” Laura said, her voice hesitant.

Lizzie felt her eyes narrow. That one word explained the call, the request that would follow, and tugged on the free strand that dangled from a tightly-woven tapestry of obligation and shared secrets. When she spoke, it was in a clipped, austere voice. “Go ahead,” she said. If Laura wanted her assistance, she was going to make her ask for it. Repeatedly, if necessary.

“Elizabeth,” Laura said again, sounding further away than the four blocks that separated their houses. “I need your help.”

“I know,” Lizzie replied.

Later, when the call was over and the arrangements made, Lizzie went down to the basement. For a long while, the thing she was looking for had been kept in the garage, but she had moved it down to the basement a couple of years ago because it suited her sense of appropriateness, and it was in danger of getting in the way of Greg's new Chevrolet and provoking awkward and unwanted conversations. From beneath an unused workbench, she pulled a battered trunk, and unlocked the clasps with a key that, prior to today, had been in a drawer with a pile of costume jewellery that had gone out of fashion somewhere around the millennium. The first one opened easily, but the second required some level of force and the judicious application of some swearwords. Eventually it acquiesced, though, and Lizzie opened the trunk, feeling a mixture of excitement and trepidation. It felt rather like riding a bike for the first time in twenty years: your body says “I know how to do this” but your brain struggles to believe it.

Everything within, neatly packed into clear plastic bags, was exactly as it had been when she packed it away. In a way, that was more generally true. Lizzie felt the old feeling again, felt it come back in a rush. She pulled one of the costumes up in front of her, squishing it into her stomach with her spare hand. “Showtime,” she said, dramatically, to the space on the wall where a mirror really ought to be hanging.


	2. She Turn’d Home Alone. (1991)

Lizzie woke to an empty house for the first time in her life. It was hard, initially, for her to narrow down what the strange feeling was. After all, it had never happened before. But when she walked into her sister's room to ask her about it and found the bed had not been slept in, she was able to identify it. She thought she was relieved, until ten minutes later, when she was standing at the breakfast bar slicing a peach onto a pile of cereal, the juice running over her fingers. Where was Laura? What had kept her out all night for the first time ever? Nineteen years old, thought the twenty-one-year-old with the weary wisdom that only older siblings can muster, was a little late to be sneaking out. But they had not had much of a teenage period, with first their mother and then, cruelly, their father dying: one to cancer, the other to a road traffic accident. The pair of them were left with each other, a house that was too large, a pile of insurance money and a constant, low-level, sense of loss. Loss not just of their parents, but of the years of their mother's illness and the year after their father's death, which had felt like being in a dream, watching reality through frosted glass, able to make out the shapes but not the detail.

By mid-morning, having both eaten breakfast and cleared up the crockery, Lizzie was starting to move from concerned, but curious, to actively worried. She'd gone so far as to look up the telephone numbers of the police department and the hospital, but not quite as far as actually calling them. It was while she was trying to decide which order was appropriate, while at the same time wondering if Laura even had any friends whose house she could call, that she heard the back door open and then close.

Lizzie had just about put her indecision away, and had decided to go for the straightforward “concerned” approach – after all, Laura was nineteen, and legally entitled to vote if not to drink, and therefore the “where do you think you've been, young lady?” line was entirely inappropriate, when she realised that she was standing in the doorway to the kitchen with her hands on her hips, and had in fact just delivered that line at something near the top of her voice.

Laura looked tired and dishevelled. Her tights had at least two ladders in them, and, if Lizzie wasn't mistaken, her skirt was on back to front. Laura barely even looked at her sister, who was still getting over her stereotypical behaviour, but moved as if to push past.

“No, really, Laura,” Lizzie said. “I was really worried. Where have you been all night?” This time, her voice contained the right level of concern and conciliation. Laura just looked at her with a gaze that seemed to contain a mixture of embarrassment and shock.

“Please, Laura?” Lizzie asked again, pointing at a seat. “Whatever it is, you can tell me. Some guy? A party?”

Laura shook her head, and sat slowly, almost painfully, in the indicated chair. “I'm OK,” she said, the hollowness in her voice revealing the untruth.

“I mean, you can do what you want, obviously. I don't mind. I really don't,” Lizzie said, minding rather a lot. “But I just want you to feel that you can talk to me.” She was running out of clichés, and worried that would mean she would have to find some words of her own.

Her sister shook her head, gave her a sad, weary, look and stood slowly, shuffling up the white-banistered stairs to her bedroom, leaving Lizzie alone to deal with the nagging certainty that she could have handled that better.


	3. An Absent Dream (1991)

Laura did not surface until late that evening, when Lizzie was preparing dinner. She had decided to cook for Laura on the basis that if she did come down, she'd want to eat, and if she didn't then at least there would be leftovers for tomorrow. The shrimp creole had been cooking away for a couple of hours, although as it had yet to have the shrimp added, it was probably at the stage of just being “creole”. She was slicing watermelon on a one-for-the-plate, one-for-me basis, when Laura entered.

“Hi,” Lizzie said, looking up, a watermelon segment in her hand.

“Hi,” Laura replied dully. She lowered herself carefully into a seat, as if there was a chance that too hard a landing might break her.

“Do you want some watermelon?” Lizzie offered the slice towards her sister, but Laura shook her head and looked nauseous. “I'm making shrimp creole,” she added unnecessarily, the shrimp being laid out on the worktop and the smell of the creole filling the room. Laura didn't reply, but sat looking blankly at a point on the wall just below a photograph of their parents. Lizzie continued to work preparing dinner, but she couldn't help noticing the way Laura periodically shifted her weight on the chair, and the tension around her eyes when she did.

They ate dinner together that night. Or, rather, Lizzie ate and Laura sat with a lightly steaming pile of shrimp creole in front of her with the air of someone whose mind is separated from their body by a gap that they are unable to bridge. Lizzie attempted to make conversation, but her sallies were either rebuffed with monosyllables or dismissed with silence. As soon as Lizzie had emptied her plate, before she had time to bring out the sliced fruit platter, Laura rose abruptly, and stalked back upstairs to her room. Lizzie sighed and bit into the watermelon slice, failing to assure herself that it was probably something minor and transient.

That night, she lay awake beneath her quilted bedspread and pondered her sister's strange behaviour. Something had clearly happened the night before, but what? She didn't want to think about the worst possibilities, about Laura having been attacked, but she was being drawn slowly towards that conclusion, when the quiet of her room was disrupted. Laura's bedroom was next door, and through the old, porous, wall that divided them, Lizzie heard a repeated squeaking sound, as if the house had been infested with rhythmic mice. In equal amounts fascinated and concerned, she held herself absolutely still. The squeaking rose in frequency, until it was accompanied by a loud thumping, which Lizzie reluctantly concluded was the headboard of Laura's bed hitting the wall. This thumping was punctuated by a light, sharp, slapping noise at periodic intervals, and Laura's voice, the words impossible to make out. Then, as quickly as it had started, it stopped, not with a sense of exultation but instead that of irritation.

Lizzie slipped out of bed and crept down the stairs. Growing up in a house allows you to learn, almost subconsciously, it's quirks and nature. Long experience had taught her which boards creaked when you stood on them, and which doors were loudest. It was only when she actually held her sister's bag in her hands that she paused to consider whether this was an ethical idea. As thousands before her, though, she reassured herself that it was in her sister's best interests, and undid the zipper and started to search through the contents. Tampons, lipstick, powder, keys, hairbrush, coin purse containing nothing but money and cards, creased receipt... Lizzie unfolded the receipt, noticing the time and date on it – last night, 11pm. _Le Marché Lutin_.

The receipt was sitting in the middle of the table, looking like an accusation, when Laura finally stumbled down the stairs. She hadn't slept, at a guess, and she looked even more tired and gaunt than she had the night before. Lizzie waited patiently, not wanting to be the first to break the silence, but recognising that she inevitably would be. Laura looked at the receipt, and sat down heavily in the seat opposite, wincing from the impact.

“What happened?” Lizzie asked, trying to keep any hint of recrimination from her voice.

“I went there,” Laura said lifelessly. “I met someone. We did stuff. I came home.”

“Were... did he...” Lizzie forced the question that had been hovering around the house for the last two days out past her lips. “Did he rape you?”

Laura laughed. Or, rather, a sound that from someone else would have been a laugh came from her mouth, without any actual amusement or life attached to it. “No,” she said, “and it wasn't a he.”

This surprised Lizzie, for while she had known for some time that she was attracted to people of both genders, the thought had never before occurred to her that Laura might be as well. “Are you in love? Is that why you've been moping.”

Laura shook her head slowly. “She doesn't want to see me again. She made that very clear at the time. Very clear.” A pause. “I want it, so badly.”

“Sex?”

Another head-shake. “Not ... you wouldn't understand.”

“Try me? Or at least tell me her name.”

There was a long pause, before Laura, unwilling to meet her sister's eyes, said one word. “Christina.”

And that was the last she would say on the matter, despite much gentle, well-meaning, prodding, but she did consent to eat a mixed plate of mango and kiwifruit slices, which was some relief to her sister.

It was much later in the day that Lizzie concluded upon a course of action. She would act as her sister's advocate. She would visit _Le Marché Lutin_ , speak to this Christina, and try to get some conclusion to this whole affair. Or, at the very least, look into the eyes of the person who had caused such an extreme reaction in her sister, and understand what had happened.

There was just one problem. She had no idea what _Le Marché Lutin_ actually was. Some kind of bar or club, she presumed. A perusal of the Yellow Pages had not been enlightening, but the Advocate, the local paper, had an entry in the classifieds.

_Le Marché Lutin_

Exclusive and Private Nightclub

Thursday – Saturday

9pm till Late

Tickets available from the Dream Boutique

Lizzie frowned. She didn't really know what “Exclusive and Private” meant, but she was familiar with the Dream Boutique, an alternative clothing store just off Choctaw Drive. As there was only a day to go before the next club night, she had better get a ticket today.

Sometime later, because any expedition always throws up more preparatory tasks than you expect, Lizzie entered the Dream Boutique. Actually, this was her third pass at the entrance, the first two having been aborted at the sight of, firstly, another person in the store, and secondly, another person who looked like she might be thinking about watching Lizzie. In both cases, she had ended up staring into the window of the realtor next door, feeling more conspicuous by the second. The third attempt had gone much better, however, and she had ended up inside, rather than outside with some overpriced condos strangely devoid of furniture.

The clothing in the Dream Boutique seemed to come in two varieties – black, of which there was a vast quantity, and bright neon colours, of which there was a smaller variety but a wider spectrum. She prevaricated, inspecting a garment made of black shiny plastic that she was unable to determine which limb would go through which hole, let alone why it needed quite so many straps to secure it. Shaking her head, mostly in exasperation at herself, she approached the counter, behind which a woman only a couple of years older than her stood, a phone pressed to her ear. The assistant seemed to be more than entering into the spirit of the store, boasting bright neon green hair that nearly matched her miniskirt and black shiny boots and what appeared to be a corset with as many buckles as the garment she had previously been examining.

“Hi,” she said. “I'd like a ticket for Saturday's _Le March_ _é_ _L_ _u_ _tin_ , please?”

The assistant looked at her. “Do you know anyone who's been before?”

“My sister,” Lizzie said, providing the minimum information. She got an unconvinced sniff in response.

“Are you going with her?”

“Not this time.”

“Are you going with anyone?” This seemed to be turning into more of an inquisition than most ticket purchases involved.

“Christina.” The lie came quickly, easily, and the widening of the assistant's eyes suggested this was a name with some cachet. Just as swiftly, her gaze narrowed into one of wariness, but she produced a ticket from beneath the counter.

“Twenty dollars.”

Lizzie handed over the money, fumbling briefly with her purse, and then, with a flash of inspiration, asked one final question. “Could I check the dress code?”

“Fetish, PVC, Leather, Rubber.” The reply was curt, and laden with the suspicion that had previously been restricted to her expression.

“Thanks,” Lizzie said, with a forced smile and a rapid retreat, clutching her ticket to her chest. “Oh Laura,” she said to herself once she was back safely in front of some extortionately costly living accommodation, “what have you got me into?”

  
  



	4. Like a Lily in a Flood (1991)

Lizzie couldn't decide if she felt over- or under-dressed as she stepped inside the club, the heels from her knee-high boots audible on the wooden flooring. The simple thing would have been to gone back into the Dream Boutique and purchased an outfit, but she had felt that she had stretched her cover story to the point of breaking, and she feared that not being already equipped with an appropriate outfit ran the risk of having her ticket repossessed. So, a shopping trip for a ticket had extended into a surprising number of thrift stores, where she had found the leather miniskirt and bustier that she was currently wearing. The bustier had straps over her shoulders, which she was grateful for, as they provided at least some reassurance that her breasts wouldn't leap out from their confinement leaving her exposed and humiliated. However, a cursory glance around the room suggested that, whilst the doorman had deemed her outfit appropriate enough to allow her entry, she was dressed almost normally compared to the other occupants.

 _Le Marché Lutin_ took place in an upstairs bar constructed of thick, unvarnished oak planking with wrought iron detailing. One side of the bar was open to an enclosed courtyard whose centrepiece was a fountain, illuminated by coloured lights that were constantly changing, shifting shades and brightness within the flow of water. The other three sides were broken up by booths made from the same thick wood as the floor. The rest of the bar, presumably usually filled with tables and chairs, was open, with a variety of benches. Lizzie looked around, her eyes wide, stunned at the sheer variety of people, and the sheer quantity of black clothing. In the centre, sitting on two benches, were two women, around fifty years old, talking loudly together. In front of them were five men, dressed only in black latex shorts, heavy boots, and collars, kneeling. Lizzie looked away, embarrassed for them

It was only when she heard a cough from behind her that she realised she was blocking the door, and hastily moved away, looking at her feet rather than making eye contact. She made her way over to the bar, carefully avoiding looking anywhere in particular, and then remembered what she was supposed to be doing. Leaning against the reassuring wood of the bar, she looked around the room again, this time trying to find someone who looked like she might be “Christina”. It occurred to her that a description might have been useful, but after the effort required to get the name, she hadn't felt able to confront Laura again.

“Can I get you something?” The voice broke her reverie, and she turned to look at the barman, who had a friendly expression that was at odds with his ferociously spiked haircut.

“Just an orange juice,” Lizzie said. “And -” deep breath “-I'm looking for someone. She's called...”

“Christina.” Sharp tone, a wariness that bordered on hostility. Lizzie turned around, finding a dark-haired woman a couple of inches shorter than Lizzie's own 5’5”, standing there looking directly into her eyes. Lizzie flinched, and glanced away. “Did you think that I wouldn’t find out?” The accusatory tone was stronger now. “What are you? A journalist?”

“No,” Lizzie finally managed to get a word out, finally managed to properly look at Christina. Her hair was cropped into a mid-length bob, her skin dark enough to suggest a Mediterranean ancestry. Her features were sharp, her brown eyes still fixed on Lizzie’s face. She was dressed relatively conservatively, for the club, a leather knee-length skirt paired with a black blouse open at the neck to reveal a simple silver necklace.

“Not a police officer.” This wasn’t a question. “Not, I think, a private investigator.” A pause, and the hostility level dropped a notch or two. “And you do look a little familiar. What’s your name?”

“Lizzie. Uh … my sister …”

“Sister?” A blink of recognition. “Oh, yes, I _see_ : the lovely Laura.” There was a sardonic note to this, and an amused twist of her mouth. “Well, I think we’d better have a chat. Pay for your drink.” Almost mechanically, Lizzie paid for her orange juice, avoiding acknowledging the smile on the face of the barman, and turned back to Christina. It was only now that she noticed that Christina wasn’t alone. Standing behind her, looking down at the floor, was another woman, younger than Christina – who Lizzie placed with no great certainty at around forty years old – with long light brown hair that was pulled loosely back behind her head with a leather band.

“Come on,” Christina said, gesturing to one of the few booths that wasn’t occupied. Without waiting for Lizzie to move, she walked towards it and sat, the other woman following her wordlessly. Lizzie, too, followed, sitting down on the red leather bench opposite Christina, nerves closing her throat. How do you go about asking someone to do something sexual with your sister?

Inevitably, it was Christina who broke the silence. “What are you doing here?” This time, the question wasn’t an accusation.

“I came to ask you for something,” Lizzie said.

“Oh?”

“My sister hasn’t been the same since she met you. I think she might be… I don’t know. In love with you?” The words seemed strange, as if someone else was saying them. Christina sniffed in reaction, but Lizzie ploughed on. “She doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat unless I make her, doesn’t go out.”

“No.” A simple, curt, response.

“No? No you won’t? No she isn’t?”

“No to both.”

“Why not?” Lizzie struggled to control the fury she felt at the rejection of her sister.

“Listen,” Christina said. “Your sister discovered something about herself. And yes, I was the one who helped her discover it, but that doesn’t mean I’m the one who should be with her.”

Lizzie felt the anger dissolve into confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Look at the centre of the room. Watch for a moment.”

“Why?” Lizzie said, as she did exactly that. The two women she had seen earlier were lightly hitting some of the men in front of them with some kind of whip.

“Please mistress,” one of the men begged, a piercingly wheedling note in his voice. “I’ve been bad, beat me.”

The woman in front of him laughed, rather too loudly. “Pathetic!”

Christina’s voice interrupted Lizzie’s observation. “What do you think of that?” she asked, calmly.

“It’s fake,” Lizzie replied without really thinking at all.

“Perhaps. If people are getting what they need, is it fake? Now look over at the back right corner, just in front of the fountain.”

Lizzie had to look harder, now, but eventually found a couple, sitting half in the public space, half in obscured, lit more dimly than the brighter centre. The man was over the lap of the woman, blindfolded, his trousers pulled down just enough to reveal his buttocks. As Lizzie watched, the woman landed a slap on his bottom, the blow seeming to echo through his body. Suddenly, she felt like she was intruding, and started to look away.

“Keep watching,” Christina said, almost in her ear. “They’re in a public area, they don’t mind being watched.”

Lizzie turned her gaze back to the couple, watching as the woman continued to slowly spank the man, each strike seeming isolated from the others. Not a frenzy, not a storm, rhythmic and insistent to the point of being hypnotic.

After a time, they finished, and the woman helped the man up, covering his rear as she did so, and held him in her arms, on her lap. She kissed him, and then gently removed his blindfold. Throughout the whole thing, they seemed unaware of the club around them, or of Lizzie’s distant scrutiny.

“And that?” Christina said.

Lizzie almost resented her breaking into the moment. “They looked like they meant it. Like they were together while it was happening.” She turned back to the table.

Christina nodded. “The connection between them. You could see it. Feel it.”

“And you didn’t have that with my sister?”

A smile, neither happy nor sad, in reply. “Not enough. Enough for a night, but not more. Your sister discovered something that she needs, but it wasn’t me.”

Lizzie frowned, and took a sip of her juice, the sharpness cutting through the fog in her brain. “Can I ask some questions?” she said, eventually. “I think, if I’m to help Laura, I need to know more.”

Christina seemed to consider this for a period, and Lizzie looked around to find out what had happened to the other woman. It was with a surprised jolt that she saw her kneeling at the end of the bench that Christina was sitting on, her hands laid face up on the skirt taut on her lap. This time, Lizzie noticed the collar around the woman’s neck, a simple black leather band with a single ring at the front – far less ostentatious or restricting than some of the others on display.

“I think so,” Christina said. “Though I can only tell you my thoughts. Never believe anyone when they promise to explain everything. They probably just want to sleep with you.”

“I … who’s that?” Lizzie asked, perhaps rudely.

“That’s Sarah. She’s my submissive, I am her dominant. Notice: domin _ant_ , not domin _ate_. One is a noun, the other a verb.” Christina paused. “Apologies, that’s just a bugbear of mine. She is also my partner and my lover.”

“Hi,” Lizzie said. Sarah did not reply, but looked up and smiled.

“Sarah is, unfortunately, not permitted to speak.”

“Why not?”

“She was smart with me; it’s a failing of hers. And so she is banned from speaking for a week.”

Lizzie blinked. “A week? How do you stop her?”

“I don’t. There are two different things here. There’s restraint – bonds, handcuffs, gags – and control. I’m much more interested in control. I use restraints, but only to help us achieve control.”

“Us?”

“Yes. Sarah, not unlike your Laura, needs and wants this. Sometimes it is hard. For both of us. But we work together to take us to where we want to go.”

Lizzie shook her head in confusion. “But you tell her what to do?”

“I do. And the trust that she has placed in me to do that is what makes it work. I have no power but that she gives me, and the act of her giving me that power, and my using it to shape what she does, is what fulfils both of us.” Christina’s tone was even, factual, but also full of a warmth and seriousness that Lizzie found attractive, found was drawing her in. “Let me demonstrate,” Christina continued. “Sarah, would you go and stand in the fountain for a minute, please?”

Lizzie’s breath caught in shock, and stayed bated while Sarah stood, curtseyed to Christina, and then walked confidently over to the fountain, stepped over the rim and stood in the fountain, the spray slowly soaking through her clothes, matting her hair, looking directly at Christina. The ever-changing lights seemed to highlight the sparkle in her eyes. Lizzie looked back, and saw that Christina’s gaze was locked on Sarah, her breathing noticeable. After what seemed like an age, Sarah stepped out of the fountain, waited a few moments for the worst of the water to drip away, and then returned, kneeling again at Christina’s side.

“You see,” Christina said, stroking a hand through Sarah’s damp hair. “She does it to prove to me how obedient she is. And I do it to show the same thing to her.”

“And not because you beat her if she doesn’t?” Lizzie was surprised at the accusation in her voice.

“No. I never beat for punishment. It’s confused.”

“I don’t understand.”

Christina sighed. “Spank, flog, paddle, cane, whip. Do whatever you want. Do it because causing or receiving pain makes you hot, do it because it’s a forceful reminder of the submissive’s place … whatever. Don’t do it for punishment.”

“So you don’t punish?” Lizzie asked.

“Oh, I do. But by taking away privileges, or giving something onerous to do.”

“Like banning someone from speaking?”

“Exactly like that,” Christina smiled. “It’s all about symbols. The collar around Sarah’s neck, the fact I chose her outfit for tonight, going and standing in the fountain, kneeling while I sit. It’s all communication between us, and it’s all about symbols.” She paused. “Can I ask you a question? Where do you see yourself?”

Lizzie felt herself blushing. “I don’t know,” she said.

“I know you’re interested. Your body language says so. That you’ve not run out the door says more.”

Lizzie let her silence answer the question. She _was_ interested, drawn to the interaction, drawn to the connection, but she wasn't able to articulate it yet.

Christina nodded slowly. “So, would you like to be kneeling beside Sarah?”

Kneeling beside Sarah? Submitting? Having a collar around her neck? Even being willing to stand in a fountain just because she had been told to? Lizzie could see the attraction. She could feel how comfortable it would be, how arousing giving that much power to someone could be. And yet there was something that wasn't right. She shook her head. “No, thank you,” she said distinctly.

Christina smiled. “Interesting,” she said. “But you were tempted. Why not?”

“Because,” Lizzie said, “I imagined myself there, and I thought about it, and I realised that I was looking down at myself, rather than up at you.”

“I see. Would you care to spank Sarah?”

“What?”

Christina looked down at Sarah for a moment, then back to Lizzie. “She's about due for one.”

Lizzie felt her mouth dry. She looked at Sarah, noticing her grey-blue eyes for the first time as the kneeling woman looked back up at her. Any doubt about Sarah's acquiescence disappeared. Without a word, or even a gesture, Lizzie heard “yes” and “please” and “I'm willing to trust you”, and felt a warmth spread through her body. “Yes, I would like that.”

Christina nodded. “Sarah, would you position a chair for us, please? Good. Now,” her attention returned to Lizzie. “If you would sit on it.” Lizzie did so, aware of several sets of eyes on her, smoothing her skirt as she sat. Sarah curtseyed to her, lifting the hem of her still-damp skirt as she did so and then holding it up as she arranged herself on Lizzie's lap. Lizzie felt the weight, and the warmth.

“It's best to always spank on the bare bottom if you can,” Christina said, watching intently. “You can see what you're doing more easily, and you get better feedback. Ensure her skirt is out of the way.” Lizzie lifted Sarah's skirt clear of her bottom, laying it up onto her lower back, revealing an entire lack of underwear. “You may find it easier if you lay your free hand on the small of her back. Good. I'd suggest starting lightly, alternating buttocks, and just building up.” Lizzie took a deep breath, and lifted her hand.

Her first blow would not have upset a fragile grasshopper. She felt herself pull back as her hand closed on what was nothing more than a pat. Somehow, without moving, Sarah communicated that that wasn't good enough. Her next blow landed with a little more force, the next even more. She felt each one, on her hand, and through Sarah to her lap. All her attention was on the curved bottom so neatly presented to her, on Sarah's breathing, the set of the muscles in her legs and back, and the little cries that started to come from her mouth as Lizzie set up a rhythm and built in power. The pale flesh turned slowly pink beneath her hand, until it felt like a natural conclusion was reached and with a sigh, Lizzie stopped, patted lightly and then replaced the skirt in its original position. Slowly, the rest of the room faded back into her awareness as Sarah slowly picked herself up off her lap. Lizzie looked at Christina. “Thank you,” she said. And then, on a thought, repeated to Sarah. “Thank you.” Sarah curtseyed, a warm smile on her lips and a glow on her face that nearly matched the one Lizzie had put on her rear.

“Not bad,” Christina said. “How did it feel?”

Lizzie reached out and collected her glass, still with a little juice in it, and drank it. “Good,” she said. A smile crossed her lips. “Really good, actually.” She shifted her weight in the seat, aware of a warmth in her lap that had crept up on her while her mind was elsewhere.

Christina pursed her lips. “Why “Lizzie”?”

“It's my name?”

“That's not quite what I meant. Remember this is about symbolism. You find things that reinforce the roles you have chosen. Garments, positions, actions but most powerful of all, words. If Sarah was allowed to talk, you'd hear her call me “ma'am”. That's mostly because “Mistress” always reminds me of bad horror movies, but you get the point. Her way of referring to me reminds her that I am the one in control.”

“And Lizzie isn't ... symbolic?”

“It's a diminutive. It's what you might be called if you were a sub.”

The vision of herself kneeling returned to Lizzie, and she nodded her understanding. “I see. Um. What about whips and chains and things?”

Christina laughed. “If you want. But probably not actual whips. They require a lot of practice, and many submissives can't really cope with how much they hurt. A cane you can practice on a cushion, and paddles and floggers are relatively straightforward. But, for me, anyway, the toys are only good if they promote the frame of mind you want.”

“Oh,” Lizzie struggled to process this, and put it aside for another day.

“I've got some pamphlets I can give to you sometime,” Christina said. “If you decide you want to do more of it. Just ...” she paused, looking serious. “If you do hook up with someone, talk to them about what they like, both before you do things and after. Even during. It doesn't break anything to be told 'that hurts more than I can handle right now.'”

Lizzie nodded, and then remembered why she had come. “What can we do about Laura?” she asked.

“I'm not going to do anything. You, on the other hand, can help her. Help her find what she needs. Now you've seen it.”

Lizzie curled her mouth up wryly. “I've only seen a little,” she said.

“Enough for now, I think.” Christina smiled. “I wish you good luck, and I hope I see you again. Unless … ” She cocked her head on one side, her eyes sparkling.

“Unless?”

“Are you sure you wouldn't like to try kneeling, Lizzie?” There was a sting in Christina's inflection of her name that caught Lizzie's breath. Beneath Christina's velvet manner, a momentary flash of steel showed.

“Thank you, but no.” It wasn't easy to say; temptation was still there, pawing at her. It was, though, the right thing for her, and she knew it with a certainty that surprised her.

“Then good luck to you, and to your sister. Come on, Sarah.” Christina stood, and moved across the room. Sarah, too, stood and turned as if to follow, and then swung back, leaned down and kissed Lizzie on the lips, too quickly for her to react. Then Sarah smiled, curtseyed again, and walked away, leaving Lizzie alone at the table.

The taste of Sarah's mouth mixed with the reminder of the orange juice, sweet and sharp, remained on Lizzie's lips as she left the club. Images of what she had seen, done and imagined filled her mind, and though she tried to push it away, a plan for how to help Laura started forming and would not fade.


	5. I Have Braved the Glen (1991)

Lizzie slept in so late the next morning that it wasn't morning any more when she finally emerged from her bedroom. If she was being honest with herself, it she could have got up earlier, but she had lain for a long period under the cover, reviewing the previous night's events, running over the details of her plan, and, she thought, blushing internally, masturbating. She descended the stairs slowly, listening for her sister.

“You're awake,” Laura said, initiating a conversation for the first time in days. Lizzie started; she had managed to fail to notice her sister sitting in a wicker chair next to the closed shutters covering the kitchen window.

“I am,” Lizzie said. She walked over towards the refrigerator and pulled out the milk and a punnet of strawberries. It might, in fact, be early afternoon, but she was going to have breakfast cereal anyway.

“Did you go?”

“Wait,” Lizzie said, collecting the bowl, deliberately moving slowly. She wanted to delay having this conversation for as long as possible. “I need to have some food first.”

Laura waited for about a minute and a half, long enough for Lizzie to pour the cereal into the bowl and slice a few strawberries, but not quite enough time for her to add the milk. “Please?”

Lizzie shook her head. “I'll eat my cereal, and then we'll talk.” Deliberately slowly, she poured the milk into the bowl, and brought it over to the table. Then, as if she had forgotten, she walked back to the counter and collected the spoon. All the while she ate, Laura watched her intently, hunched forward on the chair. Finally, Lizzie finished, and set down the bowl. “I did go, yes.”

“Did you see her?”

“Yes. And we talked.”

“Will she?” Laura's eagerness was palpable.

“Will she do what?” Lizzie concentrated hard. She needed to draw this out, to lead Laura slowly to the conclusion she wanted.

“Will she see me ... do things with me?”

“No,” Lizzie said.

Laura slumped in back in the chair. “So it was pointless then?”

“Tell me,” Lizzie said, picking her words with care, “is it her you want, or the way she made you feel?”

Still leaning back, Laura shrugged. It was at least ten seconds before she gave an answer. “What she made me feel. I think ... I think I need it, Lizzie.”

“So what we need to do is find some way for you to get that, without her.”

Interest awoke in Laura. “What did you do?” she asked. “Did you ... do what I did? Kneel for her? Have her spank you?”

Lizzie laughed. “No, I didn't. But I found out a lot about you, about that kind of thing.” She paused. “And about me.” Laura looked confused, so Lizzie pushed on. “I think I've worked out a way for you to get what you need.” She let the statement hang in the air, standing up and taking her bowl to the sink, deliberately turning her back on her sister.

“What is it?” Laura said, when it became clear that Lizzie wasn't just going to tell her.

Lizzie finished washing up, setting the bowl on the drying rack, and turned back to Laura. “I could do it.” Laura looked blankly at her. “I've always looked after you. This is just another way.”

“Isn't it wrong?” Laura said.

Lizzie felt herself grow in confidence. Laura had phrased it as a question, and not in a particularly confident way. “Some people might think so,” she said, non-committally, “but I don't think it's any of their business what we do together.”

The pause that followed grew into a silence, and the silence grew more and more significant. Lizzie sat back in her chair, watching Laura, who was alternating between looking at her hands and looking up at Lizzie. Lizzie's heartbeat was audible in her ears. It surprised her how much she had already invested in this, how much she hoped Laura would agree.

“Are you sure you can do it?” Laura asked, eventually.

“Yes.” Confidence. Control comes from confidence. Fake it if you don't have it.

“I need to think.”

“Take as long as you need, Laura.” Lizzie tried to inflect her sister's name in the same way as Christina had, and was pleased with the way it sounded. Laura looked at her, astonished, and then slowly stood and shuffled across the room, glanced back over her shoulder, and then headed out the door.

The next few hours passed interminably. Lizzie cleaned the kitchen, emptied the bins and mopped the floor, then moved onto the parlour. She found time to do the tasks that she had been putting of for years: sorting through a drawer full of old documents, filing bank statements, dusting under porcelain that had remained un-dusted since before their mother had died. A few times she thought she heard Laura walking about in her room upstairs, and fought back the temptation to go and talk to her again. Eventually, Lizzie heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and sat herself down in the largest chair in the room, an old wing-backed armchair with faded upholstery.

Laura pushed the door open, and then peered around the edge, before finally stepping inside. “Well?” Lizzie asked, trying to make it sound like she didn't really care about the answer. She watched her sister take a deep breath.

“Yes,” Laura said, darting a glance at Lizzie, and then looking down at the floor. Lizzie breathed out, only then becoming aware that she had been holding her breath.

“I need you to ask, Laura,” she said.

“Lizzie, would...”

“Elizabeth,” Lizzie cut in, curtly. “You call me Elizabeth, if you're going to ask for this.”

Laura swallowed, and nodded acceptance. “Elizabeth. Would you be willing to...” Another breath. “Would you be willing to accept me as your submissive?”

Elizabeth stood from her chair and walked towards her sister, grateful for the couple of inches in height she had on her. She stood close to Laura, looking into her brown eyes, reading the nervousness and excitement in them, along with a tinge of shame. She lifted her hand, touched two fingers to Laura's cheekbone, and nodded slowly. “Yes,” she said. “I am willing to do that.” She slid her fingertips down Laura's cheek to underneath her jawbone, and lifted, tilting her head back, before leaning forward and pressing her mouth to her sister's. Laura parted her lips, welcoming Elizabeth's kiss warmly.

After a moment, Elizabeth lifted her head away. “Here's what's going to happen,” she said. “You are going to shower, and then get that tangle out of your hair. You will not come back down here for two hours, and when you do, you will be dressed in a skirt no longer than this -” she made a chopping motion, pressing the edge of her hand to Laura's thigh, just below her bottom “- and a sleeveless top. Don't bother with panties or a bra. You will walk through the door, and you will curtsey, and then you will come and kneel in front of me. Understood?”

“Yes ...” Laura struggled for a word to say.

“You mean “Yes, ma'am”, I think.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Laura bit her bottom lip, her eyes shining with inchoate tears. “Thank you, ma'am.”

“You may go,” Elizabeth said. As soon as Laura was out of the door she looked up at the ceiling, and let the smile that she had been repressing cover her face. She had two hours, and some shopping to do at the Dream Boutique.


	6. Wormwood to her Tongue (1991)

Lizzie waited patiently, her shopping bags partially hidden behind the armchair, except for one item, which she laid on the coffee table directly in front of her. She had just about had time for a hurried change, wishing that she had told Laura three hours instead of two, but she was pleased enough with her appearance. A knee-length pencil skirt, a black formal blouse, a pair of leather gloves and enough height on her heels that she would be significantly taller than her sister. She crossed her legs, and tried to look both formal and relaxed at the same time, hoping that Laura would be too distracted to notice any awkwardness.

As the allotted time expired, the door opened, and Laura stepped inside. Her dark, almost black, hair shone with life. And conditioner. The contrast to her haggard appearance of the last few days was remarkable. She curtseyed, gripping the hem of her skirt between thumb and forefinger, and then, gaze locked on Elizabeth's legs, crossed the room. As she knelt, Elizabeth saw her spot the object on the table, and then look away. A blush rose to Laura's cheeks, another sign of returning vitality, as well as embarrassment. Elizabeth studied her for a moment, and then reached forward, gathering Laura's hair in her hands, pulling it lightly back behind her head. “Whenever you're with me, like this,” she said, “you tie your hair up.” She pulled the hair-band she had prepared from her wrist and bound Laura's hair, just tightly enough that it would be a little uncomfortable, letting the end of the ponytail brush her shoulders. “I don't want you to hide behind it, and I want you to be aware that I chose to have you wear it like this. I want you to feel it move when you do. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Laura said, her voice trembling slightly. She stole a glance at the table again.

“I see you've noticed,” Elizabeth said. “Do you want it?”

Laura nodded in response, the freshly-formed ponytail bouncing as she did.

“Ask.”

There was a long pause, with Laura clearly struggling to frame the sentence. Elizabeth gently laid her hand on the top of Laura's head, then stroked her black hair, cupping the back of her skull.

“Please, ma'am,” Laura said. Elizabeth's heart thumped at the quaver in her voice, not one of uncertainty, but one of barely controlled emotion. “Would you put your collar around my neck?”

“No,” Elizabeth said. Laura stiffened beneath her hand, but seemed reassured when Elizabeth caressed her again. “You can put it on yourself, knowing that you're giving yourself to me as you do so.”

Laura gulped, and nodded. “Yes, ma'am,” she said. Elizabeth withdrew her hand, and watched, working hard to keep her face as close to expressionless as she could manage. Would Laura do it? Lizzie wondered if she'd pushed too hard already, especially with what she had planned ahead.

Eventually, Laura turned slightly, and reaching out a noticeably wobbling hand and picked up the collar. It was very similar to the one that Lizzie had seen around Sarah's neck, relatively plain, around three-quarters of an inch wide, but with enough thickness to have a noticeable weight. Dangling from a staple on the front was a single silver ring. Laura ran her finger along one of the edges, exploring the material. She pursed her lips for a moment, and then lifted the collar to her throat, slowly moving her hands from the front to the back, finding the strap and feeding it through the buckle. Elizabeth stood and walked behind her, helping push a hole in the strap down over a small silver post situated just before the buckle. She reached around in front of Laura, and showed her the small silver padlock in her hand, then carefully threaded the shackle through a hole in the post. She waited a moment, and then closed the lock, making sure Laura heard the click.

Laura exhaled, and Lizzie was a little worried, when she returned to her seat, to see the tears running down her cheeks. She needed to check on Laura without risking the nascent connection. “How do you feel,” Elizabeth asked.

“Safe,” Laura replied, instantly. “Loved. Secure.” She tugged on the ring to demonstrate.

Lizzie relaxed. “Good,” she said. “Because you are.” She reached into her bag and lifted out a flat, square, jewellery case. “You may put this on me.” Laura took the box from her hand and, fumbling slightly, opened it, smiling when she saw the contents. Cautiously, she took the thin silver necklace from within, letting the small key dangle from her palm. She stood, and lowered the necklace over Elizabeth's head, almost reverentially. Elizabeth reached up a hand and shifted her loose brown hair from the way, letting the key settle almost between her breasts. “There. You have the lock and I have the key, and only I can take that collar off you.”

“Why would you want to, ma'am?”

“I can't imagine Aunt Jennifer will think too much of it.” Lizzie regretted the words as soon as she said them. Laura froze in position, suddenly looking scared. Lizzie stood and wrapped her arms around her sister. “It's OK,” she said, softly, in her ear. “This is right. This is what you need, and it's what I need.” She didn't know if it was the words, the gesture, or the tone that worked, but she felt the terror fade from Laura's body. “All right?” she said, loosening her grip and looking in Laura's still tear-filled eyes.

“Yes, ma'am,” Laura said, a smile slowly curling the corners of her mouth.

“Good,” Elizabeth said. “Now. Are you ready for your first spanking?”

“I think so, ma'am.” Not confident, but not reluctant either.

Elizabeth looked at the armchair for a moment, and then rejected it in favour of one of the armless chairs set on the other side of the coffee table. She sat down, and patted her lap. “If this becomes more than you can bear,” she said, “just say “Lizzie”, and I'll know you're in trouble, and we'll stop.”

Laura nodded, and bent herself over. Elizabeth guided her down, supporting her weight and preventing her from toppling. Laura's skirt fell out of the way of its own accord, revealing pale skin with just a few spots that were showing the faded outlines of bruises. “What did Christina use on you?” Elizabeth asked.

“A cane, ma'am,” Laura said.

“Did you like it?”

“Very much, ma'am. Though it did hurt.”

Elizabeth laughed. “I'm sure it's supposed to. I'm going to use my hand this time, but you'll be pleased to know that I have both a cane and a paddle now, and I intend to use both on you soon.” She felt Laura tremble on her lap, and stroked her palm across her rear. “So we begin.” As before, with Sarah, she started lightly, building up, alternating her target from one cheek to another, watching the way the impact flowed through Laura's flesh, the way she jerked slightly after each blow. As Lizzie got lost in the rhythm, a small voice in the corner of her mind whispered “You are spanking your sister.” The thought threw her out of her pattern, and she shook her head and restarted. Laura was her sister, yes, but she was now also her submissive. She had promised to look after her, to see to her needs, and that was all she was doing. There was nothing wrong with that. And the heat burning between her legs, the moisture she saw glistening in Laura's exposed slit, was a natural outcome, a natural result of the connection between them, of the fulfilment of their needs.

Laura's bottom pinked beneath Elizabeth's hand, then started to redden. At first silent, she started to yelp a little as the strikes increased in power. Elizabeth enjoyed the way she moved, just squirming away with the blow, then pushing back up as if begging for another one. After a few minutes, though, she stopped, partly because she felt Laura was reaching a limit, but mostly because her hand was starting to ache a little. She let Laura remain still for a few moments, and then tugged lightly on her shoulder, indicating she should get up. Laura slowly straightened, her chest rising and falling as she regained her breath.

“I think you had better get used to having a sore bottom,” Elizabeth said. “I do intend to keep it that way for quite a while.”

Laura's answering smile was like sunshine breaking through clouds. “Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am.”

Elizabeth gripped Laura's shoulder, turning her on her lap, watching the wince as her red bottom took her weight. She put her hands on either side of Laura's face, pressing firmly enough to hold her still without hurting her, and then pulled her face towards her own, leaning forward to kiss her passionately. Without a hint of reluctance, Laura's mouth opened, her tongue flicking invitationally at Elizabeth's, an invitation that was not declined. Elizabeth drove into her sister's mouth, tasting her, exploring within, shifting her grip to hold the back of Laura's head, ensuring that everything about this kiss said “you are _mine_ ”.

After a while, she lifted her head away, still holding Laura firmly. “Now, young lady,” she said. “I think you've been having a little bit of a problem at nights. Am I right?”

Laura's face flamed immediately with embarrassment. “Yes, ma'am,” she whispered. “How did you know, ma'am?”

Elizabeth sniffed. “Because you've been banging your headboard against the wall like it was some kind of drum-kit. So, what is the problem exactly.?”

“I ...” Laura faltered. Rather than console her, Elizabeth raised an eyebrow in enquiry, at the same time trying to look fierce. “I can't make myself ...”

“Use the word.”

“I can't make myself orgasm, ma'am.” Laura was trying to look anywhere but at her sister, but Elizabeth wasn't going to let her get away with it.

“Look at me,” she said. Laura did so, her eyes filled with shame. “I think that's because you need permission. And I'm the one who can give it to you.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“So, let us be clear. You cannot climax without my permission, and you may not climax without it. Understood?”

Laura blinked her acceptance.

“Poor you. You must be very frustrated.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Laura whispered. “It's been horrid.”

“So I think we should do something about it, don't you?” Elizabeth released her sister's head, and shifted to let her know she should stand up.

“How, ma'am?”

Elizabeth smiled. “Dining room,” she said, standing and heading in that direction. Laura followed, radiating confusion.

The dining room was, as it always had been, a formal room. Dark wood table, highly polished. A matching dresser, intimidating in its height. It was a room in which Laura and Lizzie had always had to be on their best behaviour. And now Elizabeth was going to make Laura desecrate it.

“Up on the table,” she said, tapping it. Laura blinked, but turned and sat on the edge, once more indicating her discomfort. “Lie back.”

Once Laura's back was on the tabletop, Elizabeth put her hands under Laura's knees and lifted her legs, pushing at the same time to slide her over the polished surface. “Apart,” she said, tapping the inside of Laura's thigh with her fingertips. Her sister's face was bright red as she looked up at the iron candelabra hanging above the table, and then glanced back at Elizabeth, worry creasing her brow.

“You don't have to worry about anything,” Elizabeth told her, reaching up between Laura's legs and, just barely, touching her labia. “I'm in control. I'm the one calling the shots. Now, I think you have something to ask me.” There was silence in return. Laura stared upwards, her arms spread across the table. “Well?” Elizabeth pushed.

“Please ma'am,” Laura whispered. “Could you make me come?”

“I'm sorry, Laura,” Elizabeth said. “You'll have to say that louder.”

“Please ma'am,” Laura repeated, just about managing a conversational volume. “Could you make me come?”

“Why?”

“Because I need to, ma'am. Because I can't make myself do it. Because I've been so frustrated.” Elizabeth perched herself on the edge of the table, sliding a finger inside her sister, finding her wet and hot and tight around her digit. She let her thumb start to play with Laura's clit, teasing it, then pressing it, then going back to teasing again. Laura's breathing deepened into groans, and she pushed her hips down against Elisabeth's hand, trying to get more pressure, get her finger deeper within her. “Please, ma'am,” she begged.

Elizabeth stopped, suddenly, and removed her hand, eliciting a cry of frustration from Laura. “Don't worry, my love,” she said. “You can do it yourself now. For me.” Laura's head lifted, eyes wide with shock. Elizabeth slid off the edge of the table, and offered her juice-covered finger to Laura's mouth. “Hands on your cunt, Laura,” she said, curtly, tapping the finger on her sister's lips. “I want to watch you orgasm on the dining room table.” Laura's lips parted, her tongue extending to caress the finger, to taste herself on it, while her hands dived between her legs. Elizabeth pushed her finger into Laura's mouth, looking the supine body up and down. “You are beautiful,” she said, “and you are mine.”

It only took about thirty seconds before Laura moaned loudly around the finger, her body twitching, and then the moan rose into a yell of release. “Good girl,” Elizabeth told her. “Now get up off the table before you scratch the polish.” Laura, still breathing hard, obeyed. Elizabeth inspected her, intently, finding the way the flush on her face matched the red glow of her bottom immensely appealing. “I'm hungry,” she said. “I want you to go and make dinner – just steak and fries will be fine, and bring a portion for both of us back to this room.”

Laura curtseyed. “Yes, ma'am,” she said, and bounced out towards the kitchen.

It was only after a suspicious amount of time had gone past that Elizabeth, curious as to what was taking so long, kicked off her shoes and padded silently out of the door and across the hall, peering around the half open door of the kitchen. It looked, from the plates laid on the counter, that dinner was ready. The reason why it hadn't been served yet was leaning against the opposite worktop, masturbating furiously.

Elizabeth pursed her lips thoughtfully. Watching her sister's fingers dance over herself was arousing, but it wasn't what she had asked her to do. "It's about control." Christina's words echoed in her ear. Elizabeth nodded to herself. That was it. She had to act, to regain control.

“Laura Claiborne,” she said, pushing open the door violently and striding into the kitchen. “What _are_ you doing?”

Laura's hands sprung from between her legs. She looked like she was about to try and defend her actions, then shook her head. “I'm sorry, ma'am,” she said, shame-faced.

“You will be. One plate in each hand, and I expect you to be standing in the dining room like that by the time I get there.” Elizabeth turned on her heel and strode from the room.

By the time she returned to the dining room, Laura was looking a little uncomfortable, holding each plate out in front of her. “Set them on the places,” Elizabeth said. “Seeing as you can't be trusted not to play with yourself, you just lost the use of your hands for twenty-four hours.” She held up a pair of black leather cuffs, with rings not dissimilar to the one hanging from Laura's collar.

Laura gasped, and then bowed her head. “Yes, ma'am,” she said, setting the plates on the ready places. Elizabeth nodded, then took Laura's right hand and buckled one of the cuffs around her wrist, and then repeated the action with the left.

“Sit down,” she said, indicating one of the chairs. Laura obeyed, inspecting the cuffs as she did so, not obviously upset by their presence. Elizabeth took a short length of string and bent down behind Laura, collecting her left hand and tying the cuff to the back of the chair. After a few more seconds, the right was equally secure. She sat down next to Laura and smiled at her. “Starting now,” she said.

Laura looked at the food in front of her, and then up at Elizabeth, an unasked question on her lips. Elizabeth responded by starting to cut up Laura's food, reaching in front of her to slice the steak into bite-sized chunks. “The things I have to do for you,” she said, mock-exasperated, “just to teach you not to be disobedient.” She lifted a forkful of steak and a couple of fries to Laura's mouth. “Here we go.”

After dinner was finished, a process that took quite a long while with her feeding both of them. Elizabeth wiped Laura's mouth with a napkin and released her hands from the chair. “Stand,” she said, waiting for her sister to obey. She took the cuffs and locked them together behind Laura's back with another padlock from the same set as the one on the collar. “Twenty-three hours to go,” she said, looking at the clock, before heading back to the parlour, hooking a finger through the ring on Laura's collar to bring her along.

Once in the parlour, Elizabeth took one of the bags from its hiding place and laid out the contents on the coffee table: a cane and a paddle, as promised; a lead that would clip onto Laura's collar. And what looked like a pair of clips on either end of a short chain. It was the last of these items she picked up, and then she turned to Laura. “Do you know what this is?” she asked.

Laura shook her head, looking worried.

“Neither did I – I had to have it explained to me.” Elizabeth said. She reached up and pulled down the front of Laura's top, causing her breasts to spill out. “So beautiful,” she said, cupping the right one, teasing the nipple with her thumb and forefinger. She held one of the clips in the other hand, and lifted it. “This,” she said, “goes on here.” The clip closed around Laura's nipple, and she breathed in sharply. “Then,” Elizabeth continued, “I thread the chain through this ring.” She did so, at the same time switching which breast she was holding. “And down to this one here.” She had to lift the breast noticeably, pulling on the chain at the same time which tugged Laura's right breast up painfully, causing tears to well in her eyes. Elizabeth applied the clip, and then stepped back, letting the weight of her sister's breasts pull on their nipples, pulling on the chain. “That looks lovely,” she said. “Would you jump up and down on the spot five times?”

Laura blushed, the corners of her eyes tight with the discomfort from her chest, and then did as commanded. Elizabeth watched her sister's breasts bounce, and then be caught by the clips, pulling on the chain and tightening them. After the fifth jump, Laura was panting with the pain.

“I do like this look,” Elizabeth said, inspecting. “But there is one more touch.” She lifted the front of Laura's skirt, and tucked it back into the waistband. “There. I think we'll make that a rule. Cunt and tits on display at all times.” She smiled. “Can I have a recap of your uniform, please?”

Laura's cheeks were bright red, and she looked at the floor. “Hair up, ma'am. My breasts and ... hoo-ha on display.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Hoo-ha? That's not what I said. Try again.”

There was visible effort on Laura's face, and her voice was a mixture of shame and excitement. “My tits and cunt on display.”

Elizabeth nodded, and then smiled. “I do this to you because I love you,” she said, more warmly, stepping towards Laura, and stroking her tortured breasts with both hands. “What do you do in return?”

“Serve you, ma'am. Worship you. Love you.”

“Time to prove it,” Elizabeth said, stepping away and walking over to the armchair. She pulled her own skirt up, rucking it around her waist, and sat down and spread her legs. “With your mouth, if you please.” Laura shuffled over, trying not to bounce to much, her chest pushed forward due to her hands being cuffed behind her. Carefully, she knelt between Elizabeth's legs, and licked her lips and leant forward, closing her eyes in pleasure.

After a moment, Elizabeth leant back and closed her eyes too. It had been an eventful twenty-four hours, and there was much still to be done, even after this moment of relaxation. She reached a hand out to stroke Laura's head, between her legs. “This is right. This is us,” she said. Laura wasn't in a position to reply directly, but the increased effort suggested, quite strongly, that she agreed.


	7. Epilogue (2013)

Laura had slept in her bed for the first time that night, Lizzie recalled. Even now, when she almost always slept with her husband, she missed Laura’s presence alongside her. Or, she thought with a smile, curled up down by her feet.

She blew the dust from the plastic packet and opened it, pulling out the stored outfit. It took some effort to squeeze herself into it. “Not too bad,” she said to herself. A little tighter than it had been the last time she’d worn it, ten years ago. Ten years. Laura had managed by herself for a decade. It was hard. It had always been hard, for both of them, but at the time it had felt like the right decision. Lizzie had met Greg, and not long after Laura met Sam and it had seemed easier to do the “normal” things. Lizzie loved her husband and her kids. Loved the life they led. But there was often a hole just the right size for her relationship, as unusual as it was, with Laura. No matter how much Lizzie wanted it, though, it was up to Laura to ask for it, as it had always been.

And then, when the call had come, Lizzie hadn’t wanted to take it. She had been afraid. Not just of risking her marriage, but scared that she wouldn’t be able to find the connection, that she would let Laura down. She needn’t have been. She could feel the confidence rising within her as the time neared. She took a bite from the half-eaten apple that was serving as a major constituent of her lunch, and then called out. “You may come in now.”

The door opened, and Laura walked in. If there was a little extra flesh, a few lines on her face, a few marks on her body, she was still, in many ways, just the same as always. Her waist was nipped in by a black corset that served to support the underside of her bare breasts. Attached to the bottom of the corset was a half-skirt, which covered her rear but left her pubic area exposed. Her collar, the same collar from all those years ago, was around her neck, and the lock was in her hand, waiting for Elizabeth to secure her.

“How are you feeling?” Elizabeth asked.

“Nervous, ma’am. It’s been a long while.”

“Just nervous?”

“Horny, ma’am. Keen. A little frustrated.”

Elizabeth smiled. “I bet. A decade without being spanked.” Laura looked away shyly for a moment, confirming something that Lizzie had long suspected – that Laura occasionally persuaded Sam to do things with her. “… properly.” Elizabeth tacked on the end.

“Yes, ma’am,” Laura said.

“So, let us begin with a caning. You will find the cane in the wardrobe. Fetch it, and then arrange yourself face down on the bed.” As Laura raced to obey, Elizabeth relaxed. Everything was as it had been before; nothing they had gained at _Le Marché Lutin_ had been lost. She refocused her attention on Laura, collecting the cane from the offering hand, and flexed it thoughtfully. “Just a half-dozen to begin with,” she said, firmly, and stepped forward.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks to beta-readers without whom this story would have contained at least one (more?) anatomical impossibility and several more typos. Thanks also to undomielregina, whose prompt I picked off a certain post and seemed right up my street - I hope it's up hers as well.


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